‘A seasonable night, sir,’ said I.  ’What do you say to a bit of running?  The frost has me by the toes.’

‘With all the pleasure in life,’ says he.

His voice seemed well assured, which pleased me little.  However, there was nothing else to try, except violence, for which it would always be too soon.  I took to my heels accordingly, he after me; and for some time the slapping of our feet on the hard road might have been heard a mile away.  He had started a pace behind me, and he finished in the same position.  For all his extra years and the weight of his valise, he had not lost a hair’s breadth.  The devil might race him for me—­I had enough of it!

And, besides, to run so fast was contrary to my interests.  We could not run long without arriving somewhere.  At any moment we might turn a corner and find ourselves at the lodge-gate of some Squire Merton, in the midst of a village whose constable was sober, or in the hands of a patrol.  There was no help for it—­I must finish with him on the spot, as long as it was possible.  I looked about me, and the place seemed suitable; never a light, never a house—­nothing but stubble-fields, fallows, and a few stunted trees.  I stopped and eyed him in the moonlight with an angry stare.

‘Enough of this foolery!’ said I.

He had tamed, and now faced me full, very pale, but with no sign of shrinking.

‘I am quite of your opinion,’ said he.  ’You have tried me at the running; you can try me next at the high jump.  It will be all the same.  It must end the one way.’

I made my holly whistle about my head.

‘I believe you know what way!’ said I.  ’We are alone, it is night, and I am wholly resolved.  Are you not frightened?’

‘No,’ he said, ’not in the smallest.  I do not box, sir; but I am not a coward, as you may have supposed.  Perhaps it will simplify our relations if I tell you at the outset that I walk armed.’

Quick as lightning I made a feint at his head; as quickly he gave ground, and at the same time I saw a pistol glitter in his hand.

‘No more of that, Mr. French-Prisoner!’ he said.  ’It will do me no good to have your death at my door.’

‘Faith, nor me either!’ said I; and I lowered my stick and considered the man, not without a twinkle of admiration.  ’You see,’ I said, ’there is one consideration that you appear to overlook:  there are a great many chances that your pistol may miss fire.’

‘I have a pair,’ he returned.  ’Never travel without a brace of barkers.’

‘I make you my compliment,’ said I.  ’You are able to take care of yourself, and that is a good trait.  But, my good man! let us look at this matter dispassionately.  You are not a coward, and no more am I; we are both men of excellent sense; I have good reason, whatever it may be, to keep my concerns to myself and to walk alone.  Now I put it to you pointedly, am I likely to stand it?  Am I likely to put up with your continued and—­excuse me—­highly impudent ingerence into my private affairs?’